


Skin Trade

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Case File, F/M, Some Chapters NSFW, Violence, medical gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 11:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18755692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Mulder and Scully deal are paired with other people for an undercover case investigating a series of murders being carried out by The Peeler.





	1. Chapter 1

Room 24 St Marks Plaza Motel: Thursday 5 April 2000 5.30am  
She’s taken her cell out so many times. She’s typed his email address into her laptop, even written the message, read it line by line, before deleting it. She’s even written in her journal. Not full case notes or perp profiles or autopsy results. Just the odd thought, word, memory. Just something tangible. She sees herself talking with him, debating and discussing. It’s easy to imagine the way he would stand, challenge, question. The way he would look at her.

The case is tough. No less than she imagined when she’d read the file after Skinner’s briefing. Her pathologist’s skills were the overt reason for her assignment to this taskforce, but the underlying reason was to separate her from Mulder in the cruellest of ways. They had been requested. Undercover but not working together. When Skinner told them, Mulder had shifted in his seat, bit at the tip of his ring finger, left hand. She knew then that Skinner was aware of the change in their relationship.

It didn’t take a trained investigator to interpret their body language, to see the shift in the ground between them. The tremor of that first night together had shaken their foundations and tipped them shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, steadying only each other. And others who knew them must have seen the transformation too. It was only a matter of time before action was taken.

Tuesday 28 March 2000: AD Skinner’s Office 3.30pm  
Skinner’s steady gaze over the sheen of his desk told her that he understood, empathised, but that his hands were tied.

“Agents, this case has some strange aspects, hence the reason you’ve been requested. Scully, you’ll be working with Agent Rick Dash. According to the file, he has a background as an army surgeon but he’s new to the FBI. He’s posing as a doctor working out of a medical clinic. Your role will be his…support.”

“Sir, am I to presume I’ll be his nurse?” she said, trying not to catch Mulder’s dissenting eye.

Skinner remained impassive. “This is an assignment I have only been given recently. I understand you’ll be introduced as his…wife. Dr and Mrs Andrew Linton.”

Pressing the back of her fingers into the space between her nose and mouth, she tried to swallow back the bitter taste of the word Skinner had just thrust at her.

“And Mulder, you’ll be assisting Faith Winkler. She’s the manager at a youth centre. She’s aware of some of the details of the case, but not all. It’s important she be kept apprised of aspects where the running of the centre is concerned, but she will not be across everything. According to Dash’s reports, she is not aware that her centre is being monitored as the epicentre for the case.” He looked at the file. “You’ll be known as Joe Mellor.”

“We’re not married?”

Skinner didn’t rise to Mulder’s sardonic bait. The AD spread his fingers across his desk. “There has been a series of murders in and around St Marks, a lakeside town in Wisconsin. Young females, teenagers, mostly those in foster care. There are several Jane Does. Diverse ethnicities, but all bear similar wounds. Signs suggest this is ritualistic. Removal of skin, limbs. They’re calling him The Peeler.”

Her stomach roiled. It was going to be a testing case. Physically and emotionally. “Why us, Sir? There are other agents…”

“This has come to me from above. I’m not at liberty to…”

“This is…”

“Agent Mulder,” Skinner cut him off. “My hands are tied. You have been requested. There are ritualistic aspects to this case that warrant your expertise…If you get lucky you’ll be home in a few days.”

Scully looked at Mulder. Their experience told them ritualistic crimes rarely turned out to be anything of the kind. This seemed to be a classic case of grooming and the other suspect was likely someone who held some kind of power or fascination over the victims. A person who was easy to trust. She got ready to stand but Skinner motioned at her to stay seated.

“There is an additional stipulation. And this is a direct order.” Her stomach fizzed. Mulder sighed irritably. His shoulders bunched up as he paused, and she saw how he was grinding his teeth before delivering the order. “It’s an unusual request, but it has been made clear. There is to be no contact between the two of you. At all.”

Mulder looked at her and she tapped the arm of her chair, one, two, three, breathe it out Mulder. Breathe it out.

“Briefings will be conducted by Dash but only with you, Scully. Mulder, you are to report your findings via email to the address on the case report. And agents, I know this will be difficult, because you will be near each other, in fact, you’ll be staying at the same motel complex, but you will not be able to meet, talk, text or email.” Skinner took a long breath, looked away briefly, adjusted his collar. “And I have been asked to point out in no uncertain terms that if you contravene this request you will be removed as active agents.”

Later, Mulder rubbed the skin on his forehead until he left red marks.

“This is bullshit, Scully. They just want us apart. This no contact shit is a just a test. They’re sure we’ll bend the rules. It’s a sure-fire way to close the X-Files.”

He slammed the wall and the shelf wobbled, knocking files to the ground. He kicked at them.

“Maybe the break will do us good,” she said, biting her lip as she finished. Appeasing Mulder, offering conciliation when he was in this mood was like patting a pound dog who’d been leashed in the dark for days.

His eyes flashed at her. “Is that what you want?” Leaning on the desk, the muscles in his forearms flexed. “I thought we were…”

“We are,” she said, following the line of the veins on the back of his hand with her finger. “We are good, Mulder. And I’ll miss you.” She circled his wrist, let his pulse flicker against her skin. 

He sucked in a breath, looked to the ceiling and smiled upwardly so she could see the tendons in his neck stretch. His soft, reluctant smile let the tension fall from her body.

“And you’ve got your assignment too,” she said. “Perhaps we can learn something from working with other people.”

He laughed then, shook his head. Wrapped his arms tight around his body.

And that’s when she saw it. The way others saw them. The way Skinner saw them, even if he understood them more than everyone else. Closed-off. They were fringe-dwellers, not team players, a unit that nobody could break into, out of or through, that nobody could work with. Making their partnership something more, crossing that line, just made them all the more vulnerable to the criticism.


	2. Chapter 2

Drop By Youth Centre, St Marks: Tuesday 3 April 2000 1pm  
The thing about working with Scully had always been that paradox between not needing anybody to substantiate his work, which is the goddamned fucking truth, and craving her company and validation like an addiction. She’s given him more in the last few years than he has ever been worthy of. She’s rolled her eyes, jutted out her chin, rebutted him, balled him out, cried with him and for him, punched him and shot him. She’s saved his ass literally and figuratively. But now he loves her. There’s no paradox. He loves her like he’s never imagined himself able. Lets himself be loved, and that’s the magic of her. He wants her to love him.

On this case, they’ve been forced apart yet they’re so close. Another paradox. They’re five doors apart but five doors close. He feels the distance between them like an infinite universe. There are stars out there that feel closer. He’s trapped at the edges of the world yet she’s still in his centre. And he hates this miserable case. He hates that he knows nothing about what she’s doing – not even the name and location of her clinic. He hates he can’t call her when a thought or theory pops into his head. They work better together. They belong together.

Quist is a potential suspect straightaway. He is your classic charismatic, unassuming monster. He cleans the youth centre when the kids are still playing ping-pong or listening to music, legs hooked over the arms of cheap couches, innocent smiles. He lingers at the doorways and chats with the girls, tells them how pretty they are, gives them vouchers for the café down the road. He’s their friend, an older, cooler friend.

The centre leader, Faith Winkler, is tall, frizzy blonde hair spiralling from her head, soft-bodied, wearing denim overalls and a rainbow headscarf. She’s wearing a pin on one strap that says ‘meat is murder’ and a dozen friendship bracelets around her wrists. Her fingernails are midnight blue but bitten down. She looks like she should be picketing some corporate building or chained to a tree. She seems so wholesome and caring it makes his head ache. He makes himself a promise: every time Faith says ‘cool’ he allows himself to picture Scully in all her indignant glory. It’s the only way he can see himself getting through this assignment.

His office is at the end of the passage, sparse, cold grey walls, cheap furniture on a thin brown carpet. The only high point is the old print of the spectacular calcite formations of the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, hanging like icicles from the cave roofs, on the far wall. He looks at the photo and thinks about how he and Scully should take a vacation there one day so he can show her the cave formations and take her through the Bat Cave and the Lake of Clouds to the Queen’s Chamber where he’ll kiss her royally and ask her to marry him. She’ll say no, of course and he’ll tease her for the rest of the trip. But at least he’ll have shown her what she means to him.

The sign on the door says ‘We’re here to listen’. He wants to rip it off. These kids crave trust. They come here to get away from their personal stresses, perhaps abusive adults. The added barrier of the corridors and the door and a sign that suggests the centre staff are invading their privacy just means they’re even more likely to avoid the ‘counsellors’ and their unsolicited advice.

Much better to just be present, to let the kids see them as approachable. If there are likely victims of this despicable trade here, then he wants to know who they might be. To gain their trust before the Peeler does.

St Marks Plaza Motel: Thursday 5 April 2000 8pm  
In her dark motel room, Scully wants desperately to call Mulder. She plays out a conversation in her mind. One where she listens to his views, valuing his input, wrapping his honey-warm words around her like a heat blanket. But he’s not here, he’s not on the end of the phone. And her body knows it.

Her bones ache. It’s not cold, but she feels chilled. She knew straightaway there was nothing phenomenon-related about the case, nothing warranting their involvement. It’s horrific, but it’s a straightforward case the local PD could handle. Victims stripped of skin, sometimes organs or limbs, left for dead with infections or killed outright as a result of the botched surgeries. The Skin Trade is an insidious sideline to people trafficking. Had they been allowed to work this case by themselves, she would conduct autopsies, find the clues hidden away in the bodies of the dead. Mulder would profile those responsible, offer some insight into the depraved mind of the perpetrators. He would piece together the evidence so that there were no gaps, or he would fill the gaps with insane reaches that would make sense only to her, only when they were shoulder to shoulder on a thin mattress in a room not dissimilar to this one. She would nod, he would watch her face, her eyes, her lips. And she wouldn’t feel self-conscious.

She would let him see right into her. That’s where the magic lies for them both. Their ability to crack each other’s shell to see the pearl inside. It’s an opening up but it’s also a sealing off from the outside world. A confirmation that they are right. Together.

But he’s not here. He’s not even on the end of the line or reading her emails. He’s as missing as she is, out of reach.

She needs to run. It’s something she hasn’t practiced for years but there’s a fizz of adrenaline rushing through her. It’s like the physical withdrawal of Mulder’s presence has coiled itself into an energy ball that she has to unleash. She pulls on her old gear and steps out into the cool night. As she starts, she sees Dash driving away. Her mind clicks. He requested their involvement, her involvement, yet he’s sneaking away without telling her. At least when Mulder pulled his ditches it was usually in some misguided attempt to protect her. Dash has no such gallantry about him. Instead of running, she pulls her car keys out and follows him into the dark, wet night. He heads towards the clinic.

He pulls up and she parks next to him. His face is blank, but his eyes narrow just slightly, letting her know he’s pissed that she’s followed him. He gets out of his car and looks at her. Rick Dash is a tautly wired man. He’s spare. Every movement is significant. His body is lithe, fit. His years in the armed forces have left him coiled like a spring, ready to strike. There are similarities to Mulder – his quick intelligence, his capacity to pull testimonies apart, to see beyond the boundaries of the case. But he is also abrasive, masculine in a way Mulder isn’t. He looks down at her from the vantage point of his height, he doesn’t bother to hide his disdain when she proffers a wild theory, he sighs when she doesn’t keep up with his long strides.

“Did you follow me?” She doesn’t answer. Just waits for him to let her know what’s going on.

The clinic is located in a small strip bracketed by an arcade with video games blaring music and the tinny ack-ack-ack of fake gunfire at all hours and a pharmacy with a flickering neon light that hums. It’s in an industrial precinct on the edge of town, alongside the river. There’s a collection of grimy buildings, old factories, a disused woollen mill, all cracked windows gaping and mangled fences. Rain beats against the windscreen and the car headlights illuminate the broken and the scarred.

He looks around, pulls up the collar on his coat. “I had two patients today, with fresh wounds. He’s active.”

“Alive? You’re sure it’s him?”

He exhales impatiently. “They’re the same length and width. They fit the profile of The Peeler.” His chin just upwards, challenging her doubt. “And Quist, the cleaner Mulder reported on, hung around.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were on your break,” he snaps.

She lets it slide. Her ‘break’ was driving miles to pick up the medical supplies they seem to go through so quickly. How many others are out there, she thinks, or nearby, bearing the burden of their vulnerability carved along their spines, down their legs, their stomachs, in the space where a limb should be. She itches the nape of neck, reminded of her own burden.

“And just now? Why did you come here without me? I thought we were supposed to be partners on this?”

From the strip, she can hear the noise of the shooting games, an air-raid siren hanging melancholy in the damp air. His jaw twitches.

She sighs. “Did you get contact details?” She knows it’s a futile line of questioning, given the patients they see and the previous victims, but she presses on, trying to ignore the way he looks around the cab of the car, anywhere but at her. His mannerisms are the antithesis of what she’s used to, he’s blocking her out at every move where Mulder receives her, even when they disagree.

He slams the car door and trudges towards an abandoned building. She notices there’s a dim light behind the window. She runs to keep up and he seems to walk quicker the closer she gets. He opens the door with a key and pushes through before her. The air inside is dank, brackish. There’s a scurrying of vermin in dark corners and in the ceiling. The wind rattles the frames and squeals through the rafters.

“They’re in here.”


	3. Chapter 3

Room 29 St Marks Plaza Motel Thursday 5 April 2000 2am  
He wakes in the early hours, startled, sweating. Scully’s voice, terrified, coming at him. His immediate instinct is to call her, check she’s okay. Instead, he takes a shower, washing away his anxiety with the motel lemon-scented soap. Under the hot jets he lets himself imagine Scully there with him. Hard instantly at the thought of her body pressed to his, at the very presence of her, he braces one hand on the wet tiles, rubs his shaft with precise, urgent movements and lets the dopamine relief take him away for a few minutes.

Drop By Youth Centre, St Marks: Thursday 5 April 2000 4pm  
There are two girls, sisters, who sit quietly in the corner of the lounge. Their bags are full of well-thumbed books, texts and novels, and they seem to find peace away from the noisier rooms, away from the other kids. Quist pulls a book out of his backpack, gives it to the older girl. Mulder catches the ring on his thumb, a garish chunky gold thing bearing a square-set turquoise stone. He also sees the shiny skin on his hands, puckered from some kind of skin disease or burns maybe. The girl doesn’t quite smile but she nods a thank you and Quist continues to vacuum.

Mulders sits on a low seat opposite and checks the title of the book. It’s a novel called ‘Second Sight’. On its cover is a woman’s face, beautiful gold-brushed skin and amber glowing eyes without pupils, hair coiling in bronze waves.

“What’s it about?” he asks.

The younger girl looks down, playing with a friendship bracelet on her wrist. She looks to her sister who also wears several of the decorative straps. “A teenage girl who has powers she doesn’t yet understand. She’s blind but she lets the sounds of the world guide her.”

There’s a moment when she’s about to speak, to let the narrative flow, but she pauses, narrows her eyes, regarding him with curiosity. He can see the battle in her mind. Should she ignore this freak or is he worthy enough for her to give him her time? She lets a small smile play on her lips.

“She’s shunned for being different, outcast. But she’s strong. She stronger than all the able-bodied people in her world.” She plays with a slip of paper inside. It’s too thin for a bookmark and there’s brightly coloured swirly writing on the front, but his eye is caught by the square set turquoise stone logo at the top. 

“What’s that?” He asks. She shows him the flyer. Make your own candles and soaps. There’s no address, just a cryptic ‘Follow the river’ in elaborate cursive at the bottom. “Who’s Medea?”

“A witch,” the younger one says.

The older one shushes her. “She’s like a white witch. Nobody knows what she looks like because she wears a mask and a cape but she makes spells and healing lotions as well as the soap and stuff.” There’s something in her eyes that tells him she’s intrigued by this woman. “We heard she’s got all the old women round here going to her for her treatments to make them look young again.”

He nods. “Maybe she’s just a woman who’s discovered that old age is a con.”

That elicits a small laugh from the older girl. “Is it?”

“Some days,” he says, “and some days it’s good to have the life experience.” He feels like he’s talking to a young Scully, the way the girl’s eyebrow quirks up and her chin juts out. She’s smart, he thinks. He hopes she has a future. A scientist, a writer, a strong woman. “Are you going to go?”

The girl reads the flyer again. “Maybe. We don’t need healing, but we could sell the candles and the soap. Buy more books.” There’s a flicker of hope in her expression. Like she’s seen an out, an escape from whatever it is that’s keeping her and her sister in this place.

“The cleaner gave you that book. Do you know him well?” He sees the way her expressions switches from open to closed off, a classic Scully if ever there was one. Say one word out of place and you’ll get no further. He leaves it. He’s already reported Quist to Dash. “Selling the candles sounds like a good business idea. Very entrepreneurial.”

She waits a beat before answering. “Will you be our first customer?” She smirks, pleased with her own boldness and he sees more of Scully. Her hidden sense of humour that comes out when you least expect it and hits you right in the heart. Fuck, he misses her. He wants so desperately to call her, to watch her sip from a coffee cup, to see her tuck her hair behind her ears. He wants to feel her warm body against his.

“Do I look like a candle kind of guy?” he asks, smiling broadly.

“Maybe you can buy one for your wife,” the older one says.

“I’m…I’m not…”

She blushes, then gets up to leave, taking her sister by the hand.

Faith walks in. “Joe, can I have a word?”

He holds up his hand and nods. “You girls go straight home, now.”

“In case The Peeler gets us?” There’s a kind of fascination in the older girl’s tone.

“Do you know about him?” Mulder asks.

“He takes body parts to make monsters,” the younger one says. “Like Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein’s monster,” the older one says and it makes him smile. She’s going to be all right, he thinks. She’s got something in her, something strong.

“Joe,” Faith cuts in. “I need that word now.”

The girls leave and he turns to the Faith. With her arms crossed, she’s wearing an expression that tells him she’s merely tolerating his presence. He follows her to the office. “There’s a message for you to call someone.” As they walk, she looks up at him, mouth smiling but eyes not. “Talking to the youth like that isn’t really how we expected you to operate. This office has been put aside for your use. I’d like to be present when you meet with our young people. I thought I’d made that clear.” She fingers a pendant, a shiny blue-green oval hanging off a chunky silver chain. It dazzles in the certain lights and reminds him of the colours of Scully’s eyes.

He nods and picks up the clunky white handset. It’s Dash. It’s the first time he’s heard his voice and it’s thin and vapid. He rattles off information just like his name, as though he’s got somewhere else to be, and he’s already late.

“What kind of equipment?” Mulder asks.

“Scalpels, antiseptics. It must be this Quist character. You said he has a backpack when he cleans at the centre. His employer also has the contract for the medical clinic. He’s probably been taking the supplies for months.”

“Nobody enjoys a stocktake,” Mulder says drily but Dash remains silent. Faith folds her arms around her, fake smile still plastered to her face. Dash hangs up and Mulder collects his jacket from the back of the chair. “Those girls I was just talking to, do you know where they live?”

He knows the centre is not a government agency so there’s no requirement for records to be held. It’s the first time he’s seen Faith without a smile. Her shoulders stiffen, her chin tilts up a little. It’s an improvement, he thinks. Maybe there’s a bit of fire inside her belly after all. Something that makes her tick.

“Why do you need that information, Agent Mulder?”

“They may be in danger. The FBI has provided you with some of the details of this case. Somebody is sourcing the victims…”

“Not from here,” she says. Her bracelets slip down her wrists as she clenches her fingers. “Our children are safe here. We promise them confidentiality and security. Our staff is vetted.”

“The cleaner gave them a book. Does he make a habit of buying gifts for children?”

Her eyes narrow slightly. A sprig of hair spins out from her scarf. She stuffs it back with irritated fingers. “Eli sees the potential in our young people. I see no reason to take issue with his generosity of spirit.”

“There will be no potential if those girls are going to wind up in a morgue,” he says.

She sighs. “Sofia and Camila live downtown. There are no parents. They’re in foster care. If you…”

“We won’t interfere in their living arrangements. We’re here to investigate a serious case. I need to know where they live.”

She’s as slow as Dash is quick, taking an eternity to locate a file. Her office is bright and busy. Papers, books, magazines, old coffee cups on the surfaces. Cacti and succulents along the window sill. There are small glass jars filled with seeds and pods, dried herbs. Inspirational quotes on the walls. The bookshelf is stacked, with paperbacks piled this way and that, plus hard back reference books.

“Do you know much about this Medea woman? There was a flyer in the book. The girls were going to a candle-making workshop. They told me she’s a white witch.”

As she’s leafing through the filing cabinet, he pulls out a title, a giant tome of Greek mythology. There’s a silver ribbon through the pages and he opens it at the story of Jason and the Argonauts. Faith is back to smiling. “You look sceptical, Agent Mulder.”

He puts the book back. “I want to believe.”


	4. Chapter 4

Riversend Industrial Estate, St Marks: Thursday 5 April 8.30pm  
She takes a long, noisy breath in and blows it out sharply through her nose. “They’re here? What? Why didn’t you at least let them stay in the clinic?” She thinks of the gurneys, the kitchenette, the warmth.

“Quist was there.”

His tone rankles. His impatient footsteps echo off the dirty walls. She’s painfully aware of hers scuttling after him.

Deep into the building, behind scratched and splintered doors, are two young women. They are huddled together under a sleeping bag. Dash taps his foot on the concrete floor, startling Scully and the girls. He’s holding a flashlight and arcs it directly into their faces. She kneels in front of them, pushes his arm down, lowering the beam.

He snorts, his tone loaded with derision. Peering closer, she realises they aren’t alarmed by the light in their eyes. They aren’t alarmed, because their eyes are covered with bandaged patches.

They scramble up on the sound of her gasp and the taller of the two turns around and the other lifts the back of her top up. Her ribs protrude but that’s not the thing that causes the breath to leave Scully’s body. She pulls away the bandage, soaked with yellowy-pink fluid, to see two strips of pink flesh against the dark skin of the rest of the girl’s body. Raw, crusting over at the edges. She presses the adhesive tape back down and the girl sucks in her breath. The other one has the same wounds. She’s younger, cries with the pain.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. We’ll get you something.” She turns to Dash and pushes him out of their hearing. Fury stings her veins.

“I can’t believe you left them here.”

“If I’d let them stay in the clinic, Quist would have collected them.”

“They need urgent medical attention.”

“I saw to them, Agent Scully.”

“They’re in danger of infection.”

He glares over her head, then down at her. “I am well aware of the potential side effects of this kind of wound.”

She lets out a slow breath. Looks away from his searing gaze. “How did they get to the clinic?”

“They told me they walked, followed the sounds of the river. But Quist must have driven them. I shut the door in his face when he tried to follow them in. He told me he’d left something in the clinic. I told him to come back later then I saw him pacing in the parking lot.”

“He didn’t finish the job. He wants more time with them.” She looks back at the terrified girls. They can’t be more than 16 years old.

“They’re in good shape considering their injuries. They’re the evidence we’ve been waiting for. I’m taking them.”

She bristles at his tone, the crude way he’s reduced them to objects. “What are their names?”

There’s a second before he answers. Enough time for his expression to register shock, indignance at her question. “Does it matter? We have to act now. Quist will be working out how to get to them.”

“Agent Dash, these are frightened young women who’ve been through a terrible ordeal. They have names. Our priority is to ensure they are given the best care and while we’re doing that, why don’t we treat them with dignity?”

He grabs her arm. She looks at his fingers, wrapped around her forearm. His nails are too long, the wedding band a reminder of her situation. She takes a deep breath in, willing herself not to think about Mulder and the way he touches her.

“You’re here to assist me. You’re here entirely in a medical capacity, to do as I ask, Agent Scully.” In the distance, there’s a blast of fake machine gun fire from the arcade and he stops talking, grits his teeth, flares his nostrils. He looks ready to bust open. His voice slinks low. “These girls…this case is mine.” He stares into her eyes, hard, before letting go and walking to the car.

She breathes. It takes all her experience to get the girls to trust her enough to move. She can hear Mulder in all her lines. “I understand this is hard for you, but you’re going to be safe,” she says. “We’re on your side. We need you to come with us. We can help you and you can help this happening to others.”

The girls, Sofia and Camila, are thirteen and fifteen years old. Probably chosen to order based on skin tone. There’s a neverending supply of wealthy people looking for matches as grafts for their gratuitous surgical enhancements. And a neverending supply of unwitting or poverty-stricken donors. The Skin Trade is both efficient and inclusive.

Dash leaves her to the questioning, to administer the care and understanding he hadn’t during his medical examination of the girls. They are reticent, fearful. How she wishes Mulder were here to listen, to quirk his head to one side, to find a story in his repertoire that would make these young women feel like they are not alone in the world.

She tries her best, she finds the softest place inside her, the place she lands when she thinks about Emily, and she talks to these girls. She listens to the horrific details of how a mysterious woman called Medea lured them with the promise of teaching them how to make their own candles and soap. How they thought Quist was there to help too. They knew him from the centre, so they felt comfortable.

“He told us our skin is beautiful and our bones too.” Camila, the older one, speaks with a wavering voice. “He said our eyes are like the earth. He told us our skin is like velvet and silk. He said he loved the colours of the candles we made because they are the colours of heaven.”

She listens as they told of drinking from a pewter cup, feeling dizzy and falling asleep. When they work he had stolen their skin and taken out their eyes, cutting off their sight, their ability to identify him. He left them with concave voids puckered like wax seals. And there’s no doubt he wants more.

“Has Quist ever mentioned where he lives?” Scully asks.

They huddle together tighter. Camila lifts her head to the sound of her voice. “His voice changed.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

Camila sniffs back tears. “Everything sounds sharper now.”

Scully puts in a call to Dash. He’s curt, snaps a loud goodbye. She jerks the phone away from her ear. There’s a social worker at her side, waiting to take the girls. She apologises to the woman, despite herself.

“My…husb…Dr Linton has been working long hours. This case…”

The woman blinks and nods, understanding. Scully watches the girls follow a social worker down the hallway. A new life awaits them, fuller perhaps in many ways, but they are already diminished. Less.

Room 24 St Marks Plaza Motel: Friday 6 April 2000 7.45am  
In her dream, muted pastels whip around, shaped like eyes with weeping pink centres. Candle wax drips where lashes should be. She hears Mulder’s voice calling out her name. She can’t see him, but she knows he’s there, always out of reach, stretching invisible fingers through the pastel eyes, whirling, swirling, screeching but she’s blind. She wakes to the alarm, sitting up in a start, sweating, his name on her lips. She takes out her phone. Dials his number. Forbidden feels like the only way. She listens to him breathing. It’s enough for now.

Dash raps at her door, startling her. She slips the phone into her robe pocket. Mulder at her hip is as close as she’s going to get. She stands back to let Dash in. His eyes wander downwards. She pulls the robe tighter. He’s good-looking in an intimidating way. All sharp angels and hardness. There’s an uncomfortable shiver down her spine, a pulse of vulnerability that she hasn’t felt in the years as Mulder’s partner. The way Mulder treats her as an equal, yet still sees her femininity, is one of the many reasons she’s fallen in love with him. Fuck, she misses him.

“Who are you calling?” Dash’s voice pecks at her.

Back turned, she fingers the keypad, remembering the soft sound of Mulder in her ear.

Dash, despite his lean frame, fills the room. “The girls weren’t at the foster home this morning. The foster carer reports hearing a car in the early hours of the morning. The girls took their bags with them.”

“You make it sound like they went willingly.”

Dash stares at her. “I am reporting the facts of the case, Agent Scully.”

“Your tone implied it,” she says.

He holds up his hands. “Look, Agent Scully, however you deal with your partner is your business, but on my watch, on this case, we communicate with our words. We don’t imply, we don’t infer, we don’t leave out whole sections of logic and leap to unnatural conclusions. You were employed on this taskforce to support me. Your medical expertise was required. Now, your FBI expertise is required. If you are not in the right frame of mind to employ those skills, you will not be welcome at the scene. Is that clear?”

She opens the bedroom door and doesn’t turn back.

“At times, your attitude has bordered on the aggressive, Agent Scully. And as I suspect that was your partner you were calling, I will have no option but to put that down in my report.”

The slam of her door rattles the window and she can hear the judgement of Dash’s words in each grating noise. At her hip, the phone is a reminder of both her proximity and her distance to Mulder. She scoops it out and hears his tinny voice. She hadn’t ended the call and neither had he.

“Did you hear that, Mulder?”

“The part where he updated you on the case or the part where he said he was going to report you?”

Her clothes hang in straight lines in the closet and she tucks the phone under her chin as she pulls out a black pant suit and soft pink turtleneck. “Where would they go? You’ve met them.”

“Are you implying that I’ve passed on information about the young people who attend the youth centre, Agent Scully?”

His humour has buoyed her and annoyed her in equal measure in the past but it’s a solid part of him and she’s grateful for it as she gets dressed. “There’s a witch, a woman known as Medea.”

“They mentioned her. Medea was a woman who, according to legend, murdered her lover’s children,” Scully says.

“Or a helper maiden who was misunderstood. Shit,” he says in her ear and she feels a bolt of relief. The car engine outside is rumbling. Any second Dash will blast the horn. Mulder speaks and she knows she’ll see him soon. “I think I know who Medea is.”


	5. Chapter 5

Downtown St Marks, Thursday 5 April 5pm  
He takes a drive to where Faith said the girls lived. A tired apartment block in a grimy road littered with broken down cars, trash and disappointment. There’s nobody home, but he’s not even sure this is their block. His trust in Faith and her fake concern is ebbing with every minute he spends driving.

The urge to call Scully is overwhelming. His mind is looping around, trying to dissect the case, to look at it from new angles. The book could be a coincidence but in this line of work, coincidences are red flags. Faith and Quist. Working together. It makes sense. She has access to the bodies he needs. But Medea? Who is she? How does she fit with Quist and Faith? How do the girls know where to meet this witch? He thinks back to the flyer. The logo, Quist’s ring and Byrony’s necklace all that same turquoise colour. Follow the river, it said. He makes the turn and drives south.

The river gurgles, buoyed by recent spring rains. In the town centre there’s a touristy feel to the water. Houseboats and stone bridges, walking paths, trees and garden beds, park benches. Here, where the river snakes out towards the hills, there is the sense of loss, of forgetting. The only sign of life here is a reserve with a playground. But as he approaches it he sees why it’s empty. Broken swing seats and a climbing frame that is so lopsided it makes him feel seasick. On the ground near the old toilet block are syringes and soiled rags. A plastic takeaway container tumbles over the yard. Beyond the playground, there is a row of tired shops, a weed infested parking lot and an old rusted caravan with a dilapidated sign that says ‘Tickets’ on the front.

There’s a gate and steps down to the river where three old houseboats are moored. Out of service, perhaps broken down, roped together they clap on the roll of the water. The panels on the back boat are cracked and greying. He walks past, covering his eyes to look in the windows but they are grimy. The middle boat is in an equal state of disrepair, with broken handrails and cracked window panes. Destined For Greatness daubed in black paint on the side seems an optimistic moniker. 

The first boat is in slightly better condition in that it appears to sit a little prouder on the water. Its dimensions are larger and as it gently rocks, its shiny hull catches the sun. There’s a dreamcatcher strung over the door, a turquoise gemstone set in its heart. Moving closer, it tinkles cheerfully, incongruous to its position here. Its name is also painted on the side, in blue cursive. Argo.

The door is padlocked but he opens it with consummate ease. Inside the smell is overpowering. Fungal, antiseptic and the denseness of essential oils. It’s a potent mix and he stuffs a handkerchief over his face. There’s a greying curtain hung at the back, dividing the space in two. The front space has a club lounge and table, a small kitchen. On the table are smooth rounds of candlewax dotting the surface. Lines of white wicks in a shallow cardboard box. Moulds in oval and round shapes are piled in another box. Each side, there are open shelves containing books, trinkets, candles, succulents.

Behind the curtain is the bedroom area. It has been converted into a medical clinic, with gurneys and shelves stuffed with medical supplies. There’s a bin overflowing with bloodied bandages. The swaying motion makes him even more nauseous. Too many young women had been lured to this filthy pit to lose parts of themselves in order to bolster the narcissism of those with power. Camila and Sofia. His stomach burns.

He thinks back to Camila’s words, when she described her book. A teenage girl who has powers she doesn’t yet understand. Her own quiet strength had shone out at him in just a few minutes of their transaction. What a fucking waste. He pulls out his phone. Dials the number but it goes nowhere. Scully’s cell is off. She’s keeping him straight.

If he can find Medea, Quist, there might still be hope for the girls. He leaves the boat and begins to walk. Ahead, there’s an industrial area. It’s the perfect place to moor a human skin factory. It’s so quiet, out of the view of the main town, where the lucky folk get to enjoy their busy and full lives without having to think about the grimy underbelly of life. The Peeler could operate at this end of the river and never be noticed. Medea, whoever she is, can assist him with a steady supply of trusting young women with no hope, luring them in with promises, perhaps money offers too good to knock back.

Single-storey buildings including an arcade, a pharmacy and medical clinic cluster over the street. A gang of youths jockey outside the arcade and there’s a constant soundtrack of blasts and booms and popping, sirens wailing. An old man stands outside the medical clinic, hacking, smoking. A brindle dog is curled around his feet.

On his side of the street, Mulder rounds a perimeter fence surrounding what looks like an old factory lot. A sign reads ‘Riversend Industrial Estate’ and he walks through the open gates into the parking area, faded lines faintly visible. There’s a tuft of paper trapped in a link, fluttering in the breeze like a frantic moth. He picks it off as he pushed through the fence. The corner of page 5 from a yellowing book. He stuffs it in his pocket as he walks ahead.

There’s an old transport company ‘River to Road’ boarded up, clustered at the footing of a pile of wooden fence palings is a bunch of pages from what looks like the same book. They flap in the stiffening wind. He walks on, past a cavernous shed with no signage but oil-stained concrete bays inside. The river runs beyond the fence and as he presses on. To his right, he sees the old houseboats bobbing.

There’s a brick building, ugly with small, dark windows. The façade is grimy, age-worn, with crumbling bricks and cement, dirt clogged in corners and crevices. Above the door is a bronze name plate. The Golden Fleece. It’s a woollen mill. He pushes at the door, it rattles but doesn’t give. The wind is whipping up, cooling the air and the book is carried along the path behind him. He stops it with his foot, scoops it up. Second Sight. Camila’s book.

He calls Scully again, charging the door with his shoulder but it won’t budge. He walks briskly around the side, looking for another way in. Scully’s phone is still off. He strains his eyes through the small windows but can see nothing beyond the dirty glass. There are occasional moans and cries but the wind is squealing and he can’t be sure if the noise is human. He heads away from the building to grab one of the fence palings to smash the windows, he hears the chugging of an engine along the river. The houseboat is moving. He tries to scale the fence between him and the river, but it’s too high. He sets off, running out of the estate but as he rounds the fence on the outside, the boat has disappeared.

He pulls out the book from his jacket.

She hunkers down behind the tree, digging her fingers into the earth. It’s warm, damp against her skin and she lifts her hands to smell it. It’s the scent of hope.

 

Room 29 St Marks Plaza Motel 2pm  
He puts in a call to the Gunmen. He needs information on all the players, not just the scant detail provided by Dash, meted out when he thought it necessary. Byers assures him he’ll send the details when he has them to hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Room 24 St Marks Plaza Motel: Friday 6 April 2000 8am  
Dash is exactly what he expected. Hands on hip, chin up, eyes narrowed, buzz cut, he’s all tense muscle and fuck-everyone attitude. Scully stands slightly away, lips pressed together. She’s about ready to bust.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Agent Mulder. There are…”

“I don’t give a shit about the rules, Dash. Lives are at stake. Faith Winkler is Medea. She’s working with Quist to provide bodies for the Skin Trade. You fucked up.”

Scully opens her mouth, shock registering on her face. “What? The woman at the centre?” She swings round to face Dash but he busts past her and fronts Mulder.

“What are you suggesting here?”

Mulder doesn’t budge, but he doesn’t rise to the bait either. “I’m suggesting we get our asses down to the river and find out where the houseboat Argo is.”

They take two cars anyway and Mulder leads. He’s on the cell for the whole trip, filling Scully in on his knowledge of the two girls, the grooming with books and attention, the candle-making workshops to lure them in, the houseboat/surgery, the book pages.

“How did you know Faith was Medea?” she asks.

“The turquoise, the Greek mythology, there was something…off about her.”

In the background he can hear Dash condemning him, dismissing the idea of instinct and gut reaction. Mulder smacks the steering wheel out of pure frustration. How did that guy operate in the field? Scully, for all her rationalism and logic, had a finely tuned sense of instinct. It’s what makes good agents better.

“We just need to work out where the boat might be moored. That’s where they are.”

“If they’re still alive,” Scully says and there’s a tightness to her voice that makes his blood run cold.

The other two houseboats are still tethered and rocking on the choppy river, brooding in the early grey of morning. But there’s no sign of Argo.

Mulder’s cell buzzes. Byers. He goes to answer it, but Dash surprises him with an over-the-top rant.

“This is stupid,” Dash yells. “A wild goose chase. You have nothing to go on here but your ‘feelings’. We need to focus, to plan, instead we’re running blind.”

The phone buzzes again. A text this time.

Quist served 2nd Armored Division, Desert Storm. Spent months in hospital with severe burns to most of his body.

Scully snaps. “Agent Dash, there are two young women, injured and in mortal danger. If we stop to strategise, we’re signing their death warrant. This isn’t a battle you win in a war room. This is real fucking life.”

Another text. This one backing up his theory that Winkler is Medea.

Charity Faith O’Hearn, daughter of Kezia and Jake O’Hearn, travellers, scrap metal merchants. In 1990 they were found dead in their houseboat, no sign of Charity. Faith Winkler studied classical mythology at university and got her degree in 1994.

He phones Byers. “How did the O’Hearns die?”

“Poisoned,” Byers says. “The police investigation was lazy at best, but it would seem they were wealthy through their trade. They just didn’t have a bank account.”

“And no cash was found on the houseboat,” Mulder said. “Thanks, Byers.”

“There’s one more thing you might like to know. The doctor who treated Eli Quist’s burns? One Richard Garfield Dash. Now a special agent in the FBI.”

There’s a moment of silence, when even the slapping of the water against the boats stills. He looks at Scully. She’s glorious when she’s angry, but he’s insanely mad that she’s been put in danger, working with Dash this whole time.

Mulder tries to keep his expression neutral. One wrong move and this whole case is lost. The girls, the houseboat, Medea, Quist, Dash. 

Scully breaks the quiet. “When you found the girls, why did you take them into the mill?”

Shit, she’s working it out too. Mulder fingers his weapon in his pocket. Tries to get her attention, but it’s too late. Dash walks past, back to his car. “I’m going back to the motel.”

Scully runs, putting herself in between him and the car. “You had a key,” she says. “Mulder, he had a key to the old mill building.”

“Scully,” Mulder says, trying to warn her.

Dash’s eyes dance between them. He’s trying to work out his escape route. “The locks are so old on these places that a standard skeleton key fits.” The words slip from his tongue easily, the lies, the cover-ups. He knows they’re on to him. “Get out of my way.”

Without warning, Dash pushes Scully aside. She stumbles and hits the door of the car with an ‘oof’ and Mulder launches himself, pulling out his gun. Dash lifts a late elbow and catches Mulder on the jaw, tipping up the top half of his body so that the bullet fires skyward. It takes him a second to recover, during which time Dash has half-opened the door of the car. Scully lifts herself up, weapon still only half-mast, just in time for Dash to boot her in the chest and send her sprawling back again. Her backside hits the concrete hard and she lets out a groan of pain. Her gun skitters away. Mulder whirls around, his gun in both hands, but Dash is lightning quick and he kicks out so that Mulder loses his advantage. They grapple, cuffing each other, each trying to gain enough traction to overpower the other.

Dash has hold of Mulder’s hand, squeezing his fingers against the handle of his weapon. Crushing his knuckles against the metal, so that they pop and grind under the pressure. Dash sees the momentary weakness as Mulder groans, ducks his torso and jabs an elbow into Mulder’s solar plexus, then tips him over his body where he lands on the ground with thump. For good measure, Dash stamps on his chest and Mulder curls on his side, gasping for air. He tries to locate Scully through the haze of pain. She’s up, heading towards him, concern etched on her face.

“Scully!” He yells a warning, but it’s too late, Dash barrels into her and they tumble to the floor in a mess of limbs. As Mulder struggles up and staggers towards them, fumbling for his gun, Dash leaps up, fist entwined in her hair and shoves her own weapon under her chin.

“Give me your gun then get in the car,” he says to Mulder. “You’re driving.”

There’s a thump of blood in Mulder’s ears and the doof-doof music of the arcade up river, its doors open far too early.


	7. Chapter 7

Lakeside Private Moorings, St Marks 9am  
The marina houses a few boats, small fishing vessels and cruising yachts, moored at the jetties. Mulder spots Argo with its shiny hull and dreamcatcher glinting in the sunrise. He kills the engine and turns looks in the rearview mirror to where Dash sits with his gun still pointed at Scully’s head. He’s restrained her with her own handcuffs. She looks pissed.

“This is stupid, Dash. We’re FBI agents. You’re an FBI agent, for fuck’s sake. What is the plan here? Kill the girls, kill us? And then what?”

“Shut up.” He throws another pair of handcuffs onto the passenger seat. “Put these on, then get out of the car. One wrong move and, well, you know what’s going to happen.”

From their position at the marina, the factory complex is behind them across the lake area. The buildings are backlit by the dull rising sun. The hum of the arcade throbs in the background. Mulder catches Scully’s eyes. There’s a flicker of fear, but mostly she’s pissed. A gull screeches overhead. Then a sudden burst of virtual gunfire from over the lake and Dash issues an ominous hiss from between his clamped teeth. Mulder watches as the man’s face blanks then reddens. You can literally see the anger burning his skin.

He pushes Scully forward to the gate leading to the wooden jetty where Argo is tethered. The door of the houseboat opens and Quist stands, burned hands on hips. The wind rushes into them from the water and it slaps the sides of the boats. The smell of diesel hangs in the air, competing with the sugary sweetness of churros from the arcade. The timber walkway is narrow, slippery in the dewy air. There are buckets, brooms and mops, and fishing gear propped against the wooden uprights at the end. An old toolbox is open on the deck, next to the jetty steps. As they get closer, Mulder sees the tools are not for construction and maintenance. It’s filled with surgical equipment. 

“Skinner will be despatching all available agents, Dash. Stop this now and there might be something to salvage.” Scully’s voice is steely. And her truth clearly cuts him. He jabs her hard between the shoulder blades and she stumbles, unable to break her fall so that her head strikes the edge of the toolbox. The contents spill out. Scissors and tongs, bone saws and scalpels. “

“Get up,” Dash orders but it’s Quist who dives forward, placing his hands on her shoulders, trying to lift her. All the while, she’s kicking and wriggling. There’s blood oozing from a gash above her left eyebrow and it runs down the side of her face as she shakes her shoulders free of Quist. Dash is leaning over her, trying to grab her, to still her. She lashes out with her right foot and catches Quist off balance. He falls and lands on the toolbox, scattering the contents even more. Mulder dives forward and with his clasped hands scoops up a scalpel, spinning it around in an arc as Quist rises too. There’s a surprised yelp, a warm splatter of blood hits him and Quist emits a gurgling noise as he falls to the deck.

“Fuck,” Dash spits, levelling the gun at Scully, who is on her knees. He kicks the dying Quist off the walkway and the splash alerts Faith Winkler, Medea, who emerges from the boat with a cruel smile on her lips.

Mulder walks to the ladder, shackled arms raised. In the water, Quist’s blood darkens the lapping waves so that the side of the boat is painted crimson. Nausea rolls around Mulder’s stomach. Medea is wearing flowing white robes, tied with a golden rope belt. Her hair is wild, coiling in circles, writhing almost. She’s almost unrecognisable from the woman running the youth centre.

“You have the power to change how this ends, Faith,” he says. “Let the girls go.”

She holds a finger to her lips and shushes him. “They’re sleeping.”

He turns to Scully, her expression of horror matching his. What does that mean? “Faith, this has to stop. Right now.”

“Why are you calling me that? Who is Faith?”

“For fuck’s sake, Faith. Drop the act. Let us in. Now.” Dash’s fury is evident in the way the tendons in his neck jut out. He has a fierce grip on Scully’s arm, and Mulder can see the pain etched in her face. She’s still bleeding.

“She’s got good skin,” Faith says, running a finger over Scully’s cheek. “But she needs to be clean first.”

“They’re not here for that. They know. They know everything.” Dash motions Mulder to untie the tether. Once he’s done, Dash orders him, “Get in.”

The woman moves aside with a sweep of her skirts, like a matador. She’s raving and chanting as they all clamber on board.

“Start the engine,” Dash says the Faith but she’s so involved in her incantation that he curses under his breath and shoves Scully towards the wheel. “Start it up.” He’s pointing the gun at Scully’s head. She does what he says and Faith’s voice climbs higher and higher.

Mulder tries to see past the curtain, but all he can make out is an indeterminate lump on the bed, covered under sheets.

“Camila, Sofia,” Scully calls, raising her voice above the din of the engine spluttering into life. Nothing. “What have you given them?” Scully asks Faith.

“They’re almost ready.” Faith twirls around and around as the boat lurches out of its moorings. The wind buffets them.

“She looks like she’s having some kind of manic episode,” Scully says to Dash. He gives her a hard stare then turns his attention back to Faith.

“You can put an end to this right now, Dash,” Mulder says, looking around, trying to work out a plan. With their hands cuffed and no weapons it’s going to have to be more cerebral than physical. But they’re running out of time to think too long.

“Let the girls go.” Scully slams her hands on the wheel and the boat banks, crashing into the vessel next door.

Faith screams as she staggers into the table. Mulder watches in a mix of fascination as she stands up, strides across to Scully and lets go with a screeching howl into Scully’s face, saliva flying. Scully pulls the wheel back the other way so they all tumble again. Dash slams into Faith so that her head snaps against the footing of the shelves. She’s out cold.

Mulder staggers forward, seeing the gun sliding across the floor. He rushes headlong into Dash just as Scully tries to straighten the vessel. They crash together, knocking the succulents and books off the shelves. The boat yaws this way and that. Scully turns the wheel again but Dash grabs her from it, throwing her down. None of them can get a purchase as the boat chugs away, unchecked.

Mulder’s fingers connect with the handle of the gun but he’s not quick enough and Dash makes a grab for it. Together they grapple with the gun. One shot, two. Holes rip through the ceiling. The boat is still sloughing through the water, turning out of control. Another shot and the bullet tears a hole through the port side. The wind screams through. The vague sound of sirens.

“Mulder?” Scully yells. “You okay?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer because Dash brings the gun down and pushes it into Mulder’s ribcage, he tries to pull the trigger but Mulder staggers back through the curtain. He lands on the bed and just about manages to roll away as Dash does fire. The bullet rips a hole in wall behind. There’s a sudden motion from behind. Faith is conscious and she’s running at Dash with a heavy hardback book. The Greek Mythology encyclopaedia.

She whacks Dash over the shoulders with it and he collapses onto the floor. She bludgeons him again and again. The thudding noise is sickening. Mulder looks for the gun, finds it and picks it up, relieved to feel its solid weight in his hand. He aims it at Faith but she charges him with the book to his chest before he can shoot and he loses it in the chaos.

She straddles him, lifting the book above her head. Slow motion focuses everything, from her lunatic expression to the froth gathering around her lips, to the sound of his own heart beating. He’s aware of the low rumble of the engine, those sirens again, louder this time, mixed with the sounds of birds cawing, the metallic tang of blood and the salty brine of the water, the saccharine smell of donut mix.

Faith is covered in Dash’s blood and brain matter. She’s screeching from the back of her throat and there’s a rabid pulse that bursts from her throat. He feels the boat slowing, chugging with more purpose. There’s the constant soundtrack from the arcade that beats in time with his heart. It’s getting louder and louder. The wailing. The boat is heading in a straight line, picking up speed.

It’s like everything around him is getting bigger and stronger because he’s going to die. And in the microsecond it takes for him to see, hear, smell and feel his immediate predicament, all he can think about is Scully. Where is she? They’ve spent so much time apart that it seems inordinately cruel that he should die without seeing her beautiful face one more time.

When Faith starts to swing the bloodied book down towards his face, he catches Scully standing just behind, gun trained. He feels such a rush of emotion that he knows that whatever his fate, he has been loved. He has loved.

There’s a crashing groan and the world rocks just as the bullet whizzes with a hiss from the gun. Faith sucks in a quick, surprised breath as she slumps to the side. The book tumbles from her grasp and lands half on Mulder’s chest. The boat grinds against a hard surface and the engine roars before sputtering and stopping. Mulder groans and pushes it off, rolling off the bed to his feet to see Scully’s shocked face, Faith’s forehead blooming with blood and Sofia holding the wheel of the boat as it bumps against the river wall outside the industrial estate. Red and blue lights flash through the ripped canopy of the boat.

Behind him, there’s crying. Low keening and concerned hushing. Camila is holding the gun.

“Did I get her?” she asks. “Is the witch dead?”

He reaches over to the girl and takes the gun from her shaking hands. “Yes,” he says. “She can’t hurt you any more.”

Room 24 St Marks Plaza Motel: Friday 6 April 2000 10.30pm  
The water pressure is weak but she washes the day out of her hair. As she lets the soap cleanse her skin she thinks of Camila and Sofia. Of their wounds, of their courage.

“How did you know where to shoot?” Mulder had asked.

“I followed the sounds,” Camila said. “And Sofia said she could hear the sirens from the police and smell the churros cooking at the arcade and knew she could get us across the water.”

“It’s what you meant when you said he had a different voice,” Scully said, understanding. “You knew Quist’s voice but not Dash’s. There is some evidence to suggest that other senses become more sharp when one is removed. You trusted yourselves. You listened to your bodies.” She wanted to add despite their injuries, despite having suffered such loss, but she stopped herself. “You were both very brave.”

Camila shook her head. “I was very scared.”

“But you overcame your fear.” Mulder touched the girl on the shoulder and she flinched. Their lives were set on a different path, now. They were physically scarred and no doubt, emotionally. And despite the outcome, Scully couldn’t help but think that it was a lesson in courage Camila should never have had to have learned. She should be reading, singing with her sister, doing her hair, going on dates, able to trust the adults she would have to come into contact with.

Mulder knocks on the door. “Come in,” she says. She wants to feel him next to her, close. She needs to. They’ve been separated for too long. It’s ironic, she thinks, that for seven years they kept their feelings hidden, and within a few months of starting a relationship, they cannot be apart. If she’s honest, they became dependent on each other long before she slipped into his bed in the midnight shadows.

He undresses and steps in, filling her space. His jaw is tense, his body tight with nervous energy. She hands him the soap and he rubs it between his hands, graceful fingers rubbing through his hair. Closing his eyes, the water drops from his lashes and she watches his face change, relax. She tiptoes and kisses him. His hand warms her lower back, pulling her to him and she sighs into his chest, letting the wet hair there press against her face.

“This case, Mulder, it was hard.”

“I know,” he says, his voice in her hair. “And it was pointless.”

“Is that what you really think?”

“They split us up to drive a wedge between us.”

She chuffs out a laugh. “And look how that worked out.”

His kiss is greedy, teeth slicing across her lips. His fingers knead her ass and she opens herself up for him, sighing at the hard ridge of his cock as it slips over her clit, back and forth. He lifts her so she’s pressed against the wet tiles. There’s a shiver up her spine at the feeling of the smooth cold behind and Mulder’s hot, lean body before her. He tilts her hips forward, opening her up so that his fingertips run the slippery line of her perineum. When he presses gently on her anus, she groans, digs her heels into his rump as he pushes harder, harder. Her fingers scrape down his back until she gasps into his rounded shoulder and he moans into the crevice of her neck.

He throws a towel on the bed and she sees the red marks down his back. She bites back the guilt. She knows they’ll fade. The Peeler, Agent Rick Dash, left his permanency on the bodies of his victims.

“What did he really think would happen, Mulder?”

“Who, Skinner?”

“Dash or whoever it was who requested us. By requesting us on this case? What was he hoping to achieve?”

“I think they thought this was the perfect case to give them another opportunity to close the Files. And for Dash, he probably viewed us some whack-jobs who would look to the arcane rather than the mundane. Not pay any attention to what he was doing while we hunted for monsters in the dark.” Mulder sinks onto the bed, gloriously naked, cock softening against his thigh. “I also think he was suffering from some form of PTSD. He served two terms in the Gulf War, Scully. The things he would have seen. He witnessed his mates burn. I saw him when he heard the noise from the arcade, the guns and the bombs. He freaked. Byers said Dash had some pretty high ranking ‘friends’. I wouldn’t mind betting some of those wanted surgical procedures that they were unwilling to pay for.

“He’s smart, perhaps the idea of being able to make money on the side for the wealthy was too tempting to pass up. Being an FBI agent gave him credibility, a station in life. Being an underground surgeon probably made him feel like a god.”

“And he knew Quist from his military days. But what about Faith?”

“Turns out Faith lived with Quist but he left her. And you said it yourself earlier, Scully. The legend of Jason and Medea. Some think she was a revengeful child-murderer, others that she was merely Jason’s helper, doing his bidding, then he spurned her.”

She lies next to him, leg over his hips. His cock stirs at the pressure. “You really think she believed she was Medea?”

“She most certainly believed it. And that’s all that matters.” He turns to kiss her.

“No,” she says, “all that matters is you.”

“It took us a little time to find that out,” he says, kneading her breast. “But I’m glad we’ve got the rest of our lives to enjoy it.”


End file.
